The old Moqui watched him closely. Evidently the spider-like handwriting was a deep mystery to him, and he must always feel a certain amount of respect for any white person who could communicate with another by means of the "talking paper."
"There," said Frank, presently, "that ought to do the business, I reckon."
"What did you say?" asked his comrade, who was busy at the fire just then, drawing some of the partly-burned wood aside, so that their supply might hold out in the morning.
"Oh!" Frank went on, "I told him dad had his note, sent in that bottle. Then I mentioned the important fact that the mine paper he carried had increased in value thousands of dollars. And I wound up by telling him how much we wanted to see and talk with him. I signed my name, and yours, to the note."
"And now to see whether the Moqui will promise to carry it to your great-uncle."
Frank held the note up.
"You will not tell us where we can find the little man without any hair on his head, Havasupai," he said. "But surely you will not say no when I ask you to carry this talking paper to him. It will please him very much. He will shake your hand, and many times thank you. How?"
The cautious old Moqui seemed to be weighing chances in his suspicious mind.
"Three to one he thinks we mean to spy on him, and find it all out that way," was Bob's quick opinion.